


Routine.

by thatonecrazyredhead



Series: Summer of Gotham Works [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Childhood Trauma, Escapism, Gen, Innocent Jerome Valeska, POV Jerome Valeska, Poetic, Pre-Canon, Summer of Gotham, Writing Event Contribution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-23 11:43:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14933618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatonecrazyredhead/pseuds/thatonecrazyredhead
Summary: Jerome Valeska is a person.Or Jerome Valeska was a person.Or at least he likes to think that he had once been a person."Their mother venomous in her neglect, strangled all balance...Her neglect bleed into the upbringing of her sons, entangling them into her warped perception of love...The golden bond – the pure love of her two little boys, was scorched and deformed. It lay dead in her hands; an unspoken war for her heart’s remains declared among the twins." -Routine





	Routine.

**Author's Note:**

> My first contribution for the Summer of Gotham event (Week #1 Angst)…enjoy! ;)  
> Tumblr: @thatonecrazyredhead

**Routine.**

|  _Jerome_ Valeska _**is**  a person._

Jerome has always moved like an artist, his limbs almost dancing even when he walked, and his strides long and proud as that of a showman. Born for defiance, wayward to the core, as independent as the rising sun, and a raging contrast of his twin.

Their mother venomous in her neglect, strangled all balance – for it wasn’t just the house she neglected, she neglected her looks and mind too. Her neglect bleed into the upbringing of her sons, entangling them into her warped perception of love and into the coils of her manipulative nature.

The golden bond – the pure love of her two little boys, was scorched and deformed. It lay dead in her hands; an unspoken war for her heart’s remains declared among the twins.

|  _Or Jerome Valeska **was**  a person._

Sex. Drugs. Rock ‘n Roll. Hollywood crime dramas were his drug of choice. Growing up had made him numb -- leaving a longing for emotion seething through his core. An immaculate hunger twisting his insides.

To Jerome, once all the world had been a stage -- his soul once alight with the kind of pleasure born of mischief. He’d dreamt to see his name in lights --  a child’s dream only to be later deemed frivolous by those around him. He isn’t meant to dream, has never held that right, nor will he ever earn it. His role as his mother’s worthless son had been determined long ago as he’d always be incomparable to his twin, Jeremiah, the prodigal son and genius.

The movies are as much a drama in his mind, a calling to Jerome’s inner self, as it is a story played out on the silver screen. The theater, a gate to the only heaven he’d be sent to – a refuge from his world. For it is in those choreographed moments, directed by the greats and acted out by legends, that is he free to be a genius of his own art. A maven of filmography as the real world drifts away as if it was the fictional world and the movies are his new reality.

Outside of the worlds birthed inside the theater, his world was ghastly grey: his “home” vivid in its yellow and magenta tones unmistakable resting atop the scar-face hill. Alluring and seductive to the outsider’s eye – defined by dazzling sequined costumes, elaborate makeup, and intricate performances.

Jerome’s life was led behind the curtain, his own charisma and showmanship forcefully disregarded; reality defined by the ever unapologetic ‘I’m sorry’, the oh so loving laughter, and the slurs of a drunken fool. The sounds made by the woman that called herself his mother. The woman that was okay with laying her hand on the ones that she swore she loved. To Jerome, that woman was no longer his mother, only an empty shell of someone that had once been.

|  _Or at least he likes to think that_ _he **had once been**  a person._

The emptiness is always there now. There’s isn’t any getting away from it – no hiding from it. His nightmares seem to help fill it – to remind him of his childhood, like the emptiness is the monster under the bed. He’s so fucking scared of it, but yet he needs it. He  _needs_ to feel something. He  _needs_ something to go to shit, something to be imperfect. Sadly, he now feels safer when something is wrong – he’s grown accustomed to it, expects it. He  _needs_ that monster under the bed. He  _needs_  it to distract himself, from not everything else but, simply, from himself.

The only monsters he had needed to fear, were the ones waking him up each morning, not the one coming out after he was asleep. It had become a routine, every single fucking night.

A routine.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always appreciated! Would love to publish another part (perhaps from Jeremiah's POV)...so leave me a note!! :))


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